


All Tangled Up

by jazzfic



Category: Big Bang Theory
Genre: F/M, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-28
Updated: 2011-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-15 03:54:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/156784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jazzfic/pseuds/jazzfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He looks about ready to murder the seatbelt. She's seen those Hulk hands in action, and thinks it unlikely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Tangled Up

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Porn Battle XI, the prompt seatbelt.

Somewhere, somehow, at some random point between the second set of lights down Euclid, and the space beneath the building where she parks every night--and Penny doesn't _know_ , except that it's Sheldon, as if that were the answer for everything--but he's managed to break the only part of her car that's still working after five years of screw-jangling wear and tear.

Ignition off and engine quiet, she spends at least ten long seconds just looking at him.

"Sheldon." She shakes her head in wonder. "How--?"

"I...don't...know." The words come out thin and forced through clenched teeth. He tugs again, ineffectively. The t-rex emblazoned across his shirt flexes with the intake of breath. "It's stuck. If you'd only listen to sense and have that check engine light seen to."

He looks about ready to murder the seatbelt. She's seen those Hulk hands in action, and thinks it unlikely.

"Hey!" Her voice snaps him into a moment of quiet. "This has nothing whatsoever to do with my car. It's _you_. You and your inability to operate out of freaking daylight hours..."

She trails off, frowning, and leans over him, trying to get at the release.

Their heads bump. Little cartoon ducks go tweeting around Penny's head. Little ducks wearing superhero t-shirts, knocking thrice on her door.

"God, Sheldon!"

Bent over and eyes closed, she swears under her breath, and wonders what her horoscope has to say about cold, calculated homicide, and what sort of tips she's likely to get when she tells her customers that they and the rest of the world can rest easy--the walking wikipedia, (PhD), is all but a memory.

Oh, and there's a hand at her forehead. That pulls up the wondering in its calculating tracks.

 _Oh._

She looks up. "Ow," says Sheldon. But he says it very, very softly, and it's weird. She thinks he's channelling some alien form of empathy, because he doesn't sound at all hurt.

He's stopped fussing in his seat. She's also stopped noticing, because his hand (warm) hasn't left her forehead (damp), and she's suddenly, absolutely, conscious of the fact that she's still leaning over him, the tangled seatbelt and blue cotton, and her fingers are no longer prying bits of unresponsive metal and plastic, but are instead, quite literally, flying by the seat of his pants.

Penny turns her head. She's not looking, she's feeling the distance. When they connect, his lips are a sharp shock that quickly shudders through her, fast and low. He's all tangled up, nowhere to go, no response to give but raw nerve and trembling instinct. She's hesitant, careful. She kisses him again. He's all over silent, unmoving, and then her tongue slips inside and something caves.

It's fast.

There's a hand at her head and a hand at her breast. They're trying to pull at each other and only partly succeeding; it's messy and quicker than the last set of red lights she burned in the wrong gear, and the friction between nylon and cotton and zippers and skin is astonishing. A distant part of her mind is telling her, quite calmly, that this is either going to make things between them even more impossible, very slightly better, or just plain fucked and wrong. But then the shock zooms quite suddenly into waves of quickening heat, and she's speeding solo, looking into blue eyes, _Sheldon_ , and--

And she expects him to say, _That's an illogical vernacular, Penny. We are hardly flying. What we are is stalling for time while I remain caught in this broken web of a seatbelt, and if we don't get out of your car--soon--my sesame lo mein will be ice-age cold._

He doesn't.

He closes the gap instead.


End file.
